


doctor, doctor (give me the news)

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Series: doc and dayman [1]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Ableism, Blood, First Date, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of addiction, Pre-Slash, Spaghetti, a little bit, and highly concerned for charlie's welfare, bad language, canon-typical tomfoolery, charlie is a lovable garbage gremlin, i've been informed this ship is called 'charbitch', iasip spoilers, if this fic is too cheesy for you then mission accomplished, mention of transphobia, my doctor's prescription for pacrim feelings, premium trash pairing, scientist is intrigued despite himself, terrible flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: Charlie gets knifed, and makes a friend.





	doctor, doctor (give me the news)

**Author's Note:**

> haha y'all know exactly why i wrote this (iasip is my newest coping mechanism), lol, so enjoy my fluff-funnelled newmann angst, this is pure cheesy garbage, i'm sorry in advance
> 
> insp: 'he followed me home' by notastranger, lovely bit of ship: if you haven't read it, what are you waiting for?

  **1:**

_4:30 P.M., on a Saturday, Philadelphia, PA_

Charlie is having a shitty day, and while it has a lot to do with how much his head hurts, it has more to do with how totally goddamn mad he is at Mac. _Goddamn Mac, goddamn Dennis, goddamn stupid movie, I can do fun shit too, goddamn it-_

There’s blood running down his face through the balled-up Harry Potter bowtie he has pressed above his forehead, and it’s kinda getting in his eyes and stinging a bit, which is why he totally doesn’t see the guy he almost runs over as he rounds a corner towards home. He yelps as he smacks into a shoulder, stumbling, and there’s an echoing grunt from the guy he ran into. He swears, loudly enough it makes his forehead throb, and burbles out an apology.

“Aw, geez, sorry, didn’t see you, man-”

“It’s quite alrig- wait a moment. Mister...Kelly?”

“Huh?” Charlie squints with his uncovered eye at the dude he ran over, and holy shit, he _knows_ this guy. Man, he runs into people he knows everywhere in this freakin’ city. “Oh, hey! Science Bitch! What’s up, man?”

The Scientist blinks at him, a little fast, like he might have something in his eye. “Um. Hello," he says. "I am...well, thank you, but- pardon me, are you quite alright?” He gestures with a slim hand to his own face.

“What? Oh, me? Aw, yeah, I’m okay, just bleedin’ a little. That knife only, like, grazed me, Mac has terrible aim. Nothing a little bleach won’t fix, right?”

The Scientist does that blinking thing again, making Charlie wonder if he’s got allergies or something, and the confused look on his face turns into something a little different that Charlie doesn’t fully know how to describe. Whatever it is, it has the Scientist pinching his brows together and frowning at him, which, okay, isn’t exactly an expression he’s _totally_ unfamiliar with.

“Bleach?” the Scientist repeats. “For your injury? That would be highly inadvisable, Mr. Kelly.”

“Duuude, no, bleach kills germs and stuff, those little things that live in the air and like, shit in your blood and all? Mac told me bleach murders those motherfuckers, and I know that knife he threw at me wasn’t sanitary-”

“The knife he _threw_ at you?” The Scientist’s voice bounces up an octave in surprise, eyebrows following suit. “I- well, I'm sorry, Mr. Kelly, but that’s not entirely correct. Putting significant amounts of bleach on a wound could hurt you. If you are worried about...germs infecting your cut, then you need to wash it with clean water and antibacterial soap.”

Charlie grimaces. _Soap?_ The sink in his apartment hasn’t worked in like, four years. “Uhh, I don’t know if I have any soap-”

“To be quite honest, Mr. Kelly, that wound looks like it’s bleeding a bit too much to be treated at home,” the Scientist interjects. “You should consider seeing a doctor.”

“Sorry, Science Bitch, no can do. No health insurance, dude.”

The Scientist frowns in thought. “Ah. I see. Well, in that case...I would recommend the free clinic on Third Street?”

“Banned,” Charlie says, shifting the balled up tie over his brow and hissing a bit. “Frank kept trying to sell organic meds there, they found out he was just selling dog kibble spray painted blue-”

“I...see,” the Scientist says again, frown more pronounced now. He shakes his head, gaze flicking up and down from Charlie's bleeding forehead, before letting out a heavy sigh. “...Look, would you like if I- shall I show you what you need to purchase in order to take care of yourself at home?”

Charlie feels his own eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa, really? Like in a store or something?”

“There is a CVS a block east,” the Scientist says, pointing.

“Well, okay,” Charlie says, pleased, before something occurs to him and he hesitates, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “Wait. Why do you wanna help me out, dude? You were kind of a dick to me last time we met.”

The Scientist shifts uncomfortably, slender shoulders drawing in beneath brown tweed. “I will admit that my behavior was less than professional when last we saw each other, and I...apologize for that. My manner of data gathering was far from ideal, and I should've gone to greater lengths to ensure the deception in my research was appropriate. But in all fairness, you were not exactly cordial whenever you visited my lab either. You and your friends left my presentation yelling profanities, and rear-ended my lab assistant's car on your way out.”

 _Man’s got a point,_ Charlie thinks, and shrugs. _But everything sounds smart in that accent._

“Yeahhh, we did do that, you got me there. But, uh...why you wanna help me now?”

The Scientist looks at Charlie, and he looks, well. Not like Dennis when he’s pretending to be sensitive with girls, but more like doctors do on TV shows when they’re talking to patients. _Nice,_ Charlie decides. _He looks nice._ “I may not be trained as a medical doctor, Mr. Kelly, but I could hardly let you go home injured when I could help fix you up, yes?”

“Uh, whatever, man,” Charlie says, smiling for some reason, and he begins to follow the man as they both turn to the right and start walking. “You’re a pretty cool dude, Science Bitch.”

The Scientist levels Charlie with a dry look. “My name, Mr. Kelly, is Dr. Emory. But you may call me Calvin, if you so wish.”

“Calvin?” Charlie echoes, sounding it out at length. It feels weird on his tongue, too much movement. “Like the comics with the tiger? Cool. What about Cal?”

“No.”

“Emory?”

“If you must.”

“Ehhh, what about Doc? ‘Cuz you’re a doctor and stuff?”

“...Very well.”

“Cool. I’m Charlie. Well, I mean, you already knew that, but like Mr. Kelly sounds so weird, like you’re my math teacher or something, which is like, _way_ weird man, Mr. Dunver had this gross thing growing in between his eyes, it was like a mole but _huge-_ ”

“Charlie, then,” Doc says, bowing his head, and Charlie grins at him. The man’s lips twitch up in a smile of their own, and Charlie thinks, again, _nice_.

* * *

Doc helps him buy some really soft wrapping called gauze-- something Charlie's definitely been wrapped up with before, but never learned the name of-- and a blue bottle of watery soap that Doc calls ‘disinfectant'. Outside the pharmacy on the benches, Doc helps him clean the blood off his face and wrap the gauze around his head like a headband. It kind of sticks together, but it’s way better than like duct tape, because it feels like a cloud and Doc is really gentle as he winds it around Charlie’s head.

“Whenever this gauze turns brown or gets too much blood in it, Charlie, you need to take it off, dispose of it, clean your wound again with the disinfectant, and wrap it again with fresh gauze. Do you understand?”

“When it changes colors, take it off, wash it with the stuff, and wrap it up again,” Charlie repeats dutifully, knees bouncing to keep from shivering as Doc’s fingers brush lightly through his hair. “Thanks, Doc. You’re a lot better at this stuff than me or any of the guys. Coulda used that disinfectant stuff lots of times, like when I got stabbed by a fork by that asshole MacPoyle creep-”

“Do you make getting stabbed a habit, Charlie?” Doc asks, finishing his work on Charlie's bandage and lifting an eyebrow at him.

“No! People are just assholes to me sometimes! Like today, Mac decided he was gonna film this video right, something for fun, kinda like _Lethal Weapon_ but a little different because we already tried making another one of those already-- and anyways, he’s like, always doing these crazy stupid stunts. This time, he wanted to throw some knives and shit because his character is like, a magician detective or whatever, and told me he wasn’t gonna let me hang out with him and Dennis to make the movie unless I let him throw knives at me. I was like, psh, no way, dude, knives are sharp, and he told me he would use a fake one like magicians do. _Well,”_ Charlie’s voice skyrockets an octave, “he used the  _wrong fucking knife,_ and I nearly lost a frickin’ eye, and then told me we were gonna do it _again_ because Dennis wasn’t even _filming!”_

Doc, who had watched Charlie deliver his story in silence-- nodding slowly in at least partial understanding-- now shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re telling me that your friend wounded you with a throwing knife and instead of calling an ambulance, he suggested a _second attempt?_ ”

“I _know,_ right? Like, I can’t believe that after all that he didn’t even get it on camera, it would have looked pretty cool.”

Doc’s lip twitches upwards a bit again at the corner, and gets stuck in a small, crooked smile. “That’s a remarkable silver lining for such a cock-up, Charlie. I would not have reacted so reasonably in your case.”

Charlie grins, tickled by the word ‘cock-up’ coming out of Doc’s polished mouth. _Pfft._ “Well, I yelled and stuff, stole Mac’s stupid Gryffindor tie to stop the bleeding. I’m not, like, mad that he used the wrong knife, really, I’m just...” Charlie’s smile drops as he huffs in frustration, and he digs his sneaker into the cement beneath their bench. “He just- He was such a _dick_ about the dumb video and didn’t even really want me there in the first place because he doesn’t think I’m cool enough for his dumb movie, anyways.”

“He doesn’t exactly sound like much of a friend,” Doc says, frowning. “Never mind that he injured you and you needed help, he shouldn’t have forced you to do something dangerous in order to let you be involved in your...video.”

“Meh, he’s just really focused on it being cool. He gets this way sometimes, when he and Dennis get an idea. I mean, Mac’s like, my best friend. Mac and Dennis are like, sometimesmaybealittlebit closer friends than me and Mac, but I get it. Dennis is really smart sometimes, and comes up with some really _shrewwwd_ stuff.”

“I see,” Doc says musingly. “Nevertheless, Charlie, friends shouldn’t force friends to do things they are uncomfortable with. Especially if those things could pose harm to you. Perhaps, next time, you can offer a different, less dangerous suggestion?”

Charlie’s gaze moves awkwardly from Doc to the sidewalk. “Nah. Dennis and Mac don’t really listen to me. I mean, not to toot my own horn or anything, I have some _imp_ ressive ideas too, like man, I had the most badass idea for a bar fight scene, cuz we’re like, filming it in a bar and stuff, but nah. The guys think I’m dumb. And I mean...I am, sometimes, but so are they.”

Doc sighs. “Well, you could always spend some time with friends that won’t throw weapons at you untrained. Or...whatsoever.”

Charlie rakes his nails against the scruff on his cheek in thought. “Well, I guess I could hang out with Frank, but I think he’s with Artemis doing some gross stuff with vegetables that I don’t really wanna see, like, ever. And Dee’s sick with like, bird flu or whatever.”

“Surely you have friends outside that bar of yours.”

“Ummm,” Charlie drawls out, in a long scratchy hum. “No?”

Doc sighs again, and shifts his crossed legs. Charlie can’t help but sneak a peek at the dark green patterned socks tucked into his professional brown shoes, and wonders at the shapes on them. Are those _cats?_ Some of them even look dead, which is strange, but hey, some people aren’t cat people. The sight makes Charlie want to grin, but he stops himself, because it might look weird to smile at a guy’s socks.

“Perhaps you can return to your home, then?” Doc attempts.

“Nah. Frank and me share an apartment; he and Artemis are probably getting freaky with asparagus in the bed right now.”

Doc’s entire face wrinkles with disgust, lips thinning and twisting down, nose crinkling. “I see. How...unfortunate.”

“ _Tell_ me about it, dude. I gotta sleep in that bed later, I hope they don’t leave baby carrots everywhere like last time.”

“Hopefully they will respect your shared space?” Doc offers weakly, and Charlie snorts in answer. He swings to his feet, heading towards the trash, and tosses Mac’s bloody bowtie from earlier into it from where it had sat in his pockets.

“I guess I’ll just go back to the bar,” Charlie says glumly. “Do some Charlie work.”

Doc also gets to his feet, and moves to stand next to him. “Charlie work?” he asks.

“Yeah. My work at the bar. You know the kinda work that nobody really likes to do? Trash, sweeping, cleanin’ the bathrooms, killing rats and stuff? That’s what I do. They call it Charlie work because I do all that stuff and they don’t. It’s not all that bad-- I’m really good at it, I always get us top scores with the health inspector, and sometimes I get to use Coke to clean the urinals sometimes, because it’s like, magic at cleaning, but killing rats kinda makes me sad. 'Cuz the bar has a lot of rats. And...I have to kill a lot of ‘em.” Charlie’s voice takes on a haunted quality, and Doc's brow furrows in consternation.

"What do the others do, in your workplace?” Doc asks, frowning.

“Frank does the books and stuff. Dee serves drinks. Me, Dennis, and Mac own the bar.”

“And what do Mac and Dennis do, in terms of daily duties?”

Charlie blinks, pausing to think for a moment. “Uh...Dennis orders the booze, sometimes? When we run low? And bartends, when he wants. And I think he pays the electric bill, when it gets shut off. Mac...uh, He does something, I think, but I don’t really remember.”

“The three of you co-own your bar and yet, you are responsible for all of the janitorial labor?” Doc makes a short noise of disapproval. “That hardly sounds fair.”

“It’s _totally not,_ ” Charlie exclaims, ecstatic to hear someone say so. “But the gang will never do Charlie work, Dennis says it’s because I’m the only one who doesn’t have working standards or whatever.”

“Then you should acquire some,” Doc advises firmly. “If the three of you are all equal partners in the ownership of your establishment, then you all should pull equal weight in its maintenance.”

“That _sounds_ like a really cool idea and all, Doc, but I don’t think they’ll go for it.  The guys are like...insanely good at getting out of things they don’t wanna do. The bar nearly fell apart the last time they had to do Charlie work, when Dennis hit me with a car and broke my legs. Like, those rat-traps were _full_ when I could walk again.”

Charlie stops talking when he sees Doc’s jaw has fallen slack a bit, opening into a tiny sliver of shock.

“I- you- did you say one of your friends hit you with a car and _broke your legs?_ ” Doc sputters, and Charlie stares at him, oddly enraptured with the flustered, rosy color that blooms in his cheeks. It is nothing like the mottled red Dennis gets when he screams, or the light pink that crawls up Mac's neck when he's embarrassed about something. It's pretty noticeable, against the pale of Doc's skin, but it's not...ugly, or anything.

“Pssh, like that’s a big deal,” Charlie says distractedly, still just kinda looking at Doc’s cheekbones. Those aren't ugly, either. He's never seen a face like Doc's. All pale and bony but, strangely, not at all ugly. He's like a marble statue or something, except for the pink at his cheeks and mouth, and the brown of his hair and eyes. Weird.

“Dennis shot me once," Charlie continues, unfocused. "Grazed me right here.” He lifts a finger to his temple and traces it back over his ear, and comes back to himself just in time to marvel at the expression that washes over Doc’s face.

“He- he _shot_ you. In the _head,_ ” Doc says, his calm, level voice coming out half-strangled, and Charlie bobs his head in a nod.

“Yeahhh, but in all fairness he thought I was a robber. Hurt like a _bitch,_ actually, had to get those weird black stitches and shave a part of my head and everything. Wanna feel the scar?”

“I cannot believe- how could- _Charlie,_ ” Doc manages, and the way he says Charlie’s name-- half drowned in horror and disbelief, and terribly concerned-- makes something in his gut work loose and float about in the spaces between his organs. Like a warm, wiggling ghost, winding around his insides. _Neat._ “If you’re being truthful, then your friends are _dangerously_ careless. Maybe some distance from them is safer for you, in the long run.”

Charlie shrugs. The guys aren’t all that bad, but Doc doesn’t know them like Charlie does. And besides, they’ve let Charlie hang out with them since they were kids, and that’s a big deal. Making new friends is kind of...difficult, when all he does is Charlie work and do crazy shit with the gang in his off time. And when he’s...himself.  “Who else would I hang out with, Doc? ‘Sides, we all do dangerous shit we probably shouldn’t, I could tell you some _crazy_ stories.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear them,” Doc says, visibly pained and staring at the spot that Charlie had traced on his head, like he’s trying to see Charlie’s scar beneath his hair.

Charlie tries not to feel hurt by the open rejection, and presses his lips together. “Um, right. Sorry, Doc.” He stares at the cement beneath them, shifting uncomfortably, throat feeling a little tight. “You probably got a lot of science experiments goin’ on, anyways, don’t got a lot of time. Thanks for helping me out with my cut and stuff, and teaching me how to clean it and all. I’ll, uh. See you later, then,” he says, looking back just for a moment to glance at Doc’s expression-- which looks oddly pinched -- and wave goodbye. He squares his shoulders, ignoring the crampy feeling of disappointment in his gut, and starts to amble a bit back towards the bar, where he plans to drink until his head stops hurting. Oh, wait, shit, hadn’t Doc said not to drink, because it makes him bleed more? Thins his blood? Guess he’ll have to come up with something else to do. Maybe sniff some glue?

“It's Saturday!”

Doc’s shout has him spinning around so fast it almost makes him queasy. “Huh?”

Doc is walking up to him tentatively, expression somewhat sheepish. “My apologies, I...” he says, voice a little hurried. There’s a fleeting second where he sucks in a breath and lets it out, expression steadying, and Charlie can’t help but admire how fast the guy can chill. Mac could learn some things from this guy. “I was saying that it- erhm, that it is Saturday, the weekend, and that I am not busy with...science experiments, or classwork, at the moment. I- I would not mind hearing more of your, um, "crazy stories", if you would...like to share them.”

Charlie knows his eyes are stuck big and wide but he seems to have forgotten how to use them like a normal person. “You would? Really? You weren’t busy doin’ stuff when I knocked into you?”

“I was actually on my way to an early dinner. I haven't yet eaten today, got distracted grading papers,” Doc says. There’s a beat where his gaze wanders uncertainly around Charlie’s form, never quite landing, before gaining resolve and meeting Charlie in the eye. “...You are welcome to accompany me, if...if you would like. You could tell me how, or why perhaps, a man named MacPoyle stabbed you with a fork. I’m quite curious.”

“You wanna eat? With me?” Charlie asks, gobsmacked. Quickly, before Doc can change his mind, he nods furiously, fast enough that it makes him a little dizzy. “Dude, that sounds great! I’m starving, I only had some bread with some mayo on it this morning-- I mean, I’m always starving, but I’m definitely hungry now. For dinner.”

Doc smiles at him with a warmth that Charlie can actually feel against his own skin. “Excellent,” he says, like it actually is excellent, and Charlie’s _never_ heard that word in regards to himself, like, _ever. Niceeeee,_ Charlie thinks again, insides glowing.

“Is Italian alright?” Doc offers. “I know of a rather remarkable place, not too far from here, if you don’t mind to walk.”

“Dude, spaghetti is like, my favorite thing,” Charlie enthuses, through a grin so wide his cheeks hurt. The guy likes spaghetti. And wants dinner. And is really smart and helped him with his head. Awesome. Charlie hasn't eaten dinner with anyone but the gang or his mom in like... _ever._ “Beneath like, milksteak and Dr. Pepper flavored jellybeans, but like, spaghetti is a very close third.” A thought occurs to him, and he lightly taps the soft cloud surrounding his head. “It’s not too fancy, is it? They won’t mind that I have a bleeding head and stuff?”

“It’s not too high brow, I assure you,” Doc says. “Even so, I doubt any respectable establishment would turn away someone simply because they are healing from an injury.”

“Some people don’t like blood,” Charlie says, shrugging. “Dee doesn’t like blood. She got totally sick when I got shot that one time on the way to the hospital, it was gross. Dennis was just mad I got blood on his upholstery.” Doc doesn’t seem to have much of a response to that, and Charlie continues, “‘Sides, just figured it’d be swanky because you’re a classy scientist and a genius and all, and cuz you’re nice, so the restaurants you like would be just as nice.”

Doc blinks it him for a bit, something Charlie’s realized probably isn’t allergies but is more like Doc just thinking and processing brilliant science thoughts, and Charlie gets side-tracked again looking at his cheekbones, which seem a little pinker than before.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Doc says at a lower register, after clearing his throat. His eyes are crinkly at the corners. Charlie wonders if he’s ever seen a smile like that, one directed at him, and thinks he hasn't. The one time he got the Waitress to smile at him was night at the Jersey Shore a few years ago, and even though he treasures that smile to this day-- he even tried to draw it once from memory, but never could capture that gloss of E in her eyes-- her smile isn’t quite the same. It has to be the crinkles that sets it apart, the ones in the corners of Doc’s mouth and eyes.

Charlie likes them. He stares at them, hoping to press and imprint them in his memory like play-doh for later recollection and doodling.

“Shall we go then?” Doc asks him, and Charlie grins.

“We _shall,_ ” Charlie replies, and even though the word sounds stupid in Charlie’s voice, nothing like the- the _cultured_ way that Doc says it-- Doc smiles at him anyway.

 _Nice,_ Charlie thinks again, dazed. They start walking, and Doc keeps to his side the whole way there.

Charlie’s heart beats like bongo drums all night. He almost doesn’t finish his spaghetti-- he totally does, because it tastes awesome, like, so good, he has to remember this place and tell the gang about it-- and he thinks it might be because he’s nervous, but it’s different than how nervous he gets around the Waitress. Or when he tries to go on dates with girls. Doc talks to him and asks him questions, and when Charlie gives him answers, he listens. Charlie knows he talks too much, especially when he gets worked up, but Doc just sits and nods and even laughs sometimes, and that makes the bongo drums inside his ribs heat up like little bunsen burners. It’s not really a bad feeling, Charlie thinks. It does make his hands quiver though, just a little, but Charlie's just glad he's not sweating goddamn bullets through his jacket.

“Are you quite serious?” Doc asks at one point, putting down his fork into a half-eaten plate of manicotti, which Charlie has learned is, like, fucking amazing, because Doc let him try some. The sheer amount of straight up _cheese_ wrapped up inside has rocked his world permanently. "You and your friends stumbled upon a _serial killer?”_

There’s that strained concern again, Charlie notes, a pattern that crops up a lot when Charlie talks about dangerous stuff, and he’d be worried about it if hearing it didn’t make him feel kinda good.

“Dude, yeah. It was totally crazy. We had actually thought it might be Mac the whole time, but it turns out he was just dating somebody with a dick and didn’t want us to know. We opened his fridge and like...there were actual _heads_ in there, man. Actual severed heads! I had nightmares, for like, _days._ ”

Doc’s mouth has fallen slightly open again, and his face is drained of color. “Good lord,” he says, disbelieving and maybe even amazed, because yeah, Charlie thinks, _it was actually pretty awesome._ “Did you call the police?”

“Well, yeah, Dennis did, but he came back to the apartment and found us first. Dee actually knew the guy-”

“He came back and _found you?_ ” Doc demands, eyes huge, and Charlie can’t help but bounce his knees under the seat in excitement a bit at how riveted the guy seems with his story.

“Yeah, man, I thought I was gonna pee my pants,” Charlie gushes, before blushing and continuing in a stammer, “I- I mean, like, we- I totally wasn't scared or anything except for, you know, the severed heads were kinda creepy. Uh, but Frank had actually brought his chainsaw with him? So like, Frank just revved it up and started chasing the guy around screaming-- actually we were all screaming, especially when Frank nicked the guy and blood went _everywhere,_ like, _pshhhh!,_ and Dee threw up in the sink, but the guy eventually ran away and _then_ Dennis called the police.”

“Unbelievable,” Doc mutters into his water glass. “Severed heads, you say? This wasn’t that prowler bloke who preyed on blonde women a few years ago, was it? That was my first year in Philadelphia, I remember hearing the story... _extraordinary.”_ He looks up, and says again in a less hushed voice, “Absolutely extraordinary.”

“It is, kinda, isn’t it?” Charlie says proudly, languishing in the way that Doc said ‘extraordinary’, smoothing out the syllables and making it sound all sleek and cool. He wants to hear Doc read a dictionary. Or like, a theserausaus-  _thesarise?--_ or an almanac or something. Something with a lot of words, so Charlie can hear them all in Doc's voice. Maybe record them, and add them to one of his songs in a cool remix.

“You could have all been killed.” Doc shakes his head, meeting Charlie’s eyes. “But...you actually helped stop a serial killer and solve several murders. That is...incredible, Charlie.”

Charlie’s cheeks flare hot. “Aw, well, it was just kinda lucky, I guess. Well, not _lucky,_ but...yeah.”

“Nevertheless, it is a very amazing thing to have done,” Doc says meaningfully, and Charlie wiggles his shoulders a bit, as though he can shake out the nervous giggles building up inside his stomach and throat.

“I’m sure you do amazing stuff, like, all the time, Doc. I mean, you’re a scientist. Scientists are the coolest.” He leans forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Is it true that you guys can make people out of like, aliens and animals and stuff? Because Mac says Thundercats aren’t real but I totally think science has evolved far enough to make human-cat hybrids, because like, Dee’s definitely half-bird, and I would waaager that the Rock is at least definitely a quarter of a rock giant.”

Doc chuckles, but it’s not a mean chuckle, or a chuckle that makes Charlie feel like an idiot. It’s a low chuckle, kinda deep, and Charlie kind of wants to lean closer across the table to hear it better. Maybe swap sides in the booth and lower his head near Doc's chest, so he can feel the vibrations of it through his crisp maroon sweater. “Science is making new discoveries every day, Charlie. As of right now, I do not believe we are capable yet of fusing human DNA with any other species. However, I would not be the first to know if we could. I am a behavioral neurologist, Charlie, my specialty is the brain.”

So that’s not a 100% no. _Suck it, Mac_. “That’s awesome. What do you do, like, with the brain?”

“Right now, I teach psychology and neurology courses at UPenn,” Doc says. “However, I spend some time dedicated to research, as you might recall.”

“Right. Still working on a pill to make people smarter? Because, uh, if that works, I'm definitely still interested.”

Doc’s mouth tugs down. “Ah, well, no. My own conduct during that study notwithstanding, my research parameters were hardly professional, and my data in the end was largely...skewed. I’ve since begun a new study regarding addiction in my lab, a study I’m far more confident will demonstrate benefits to the scientific community and the general public.”

“Addiction, huh?” Charlie asks, a little nervously. “Like, uh, alcohol and stuff? Or like, um, huffing glue?”

Doc lifts an eyebrow. “Cigarettes, actually.” He pauses. “Charlie, this may be a hideously personal question, but I don’t suppose you’re addicted to huffing glue, are you?”

Charlie laughs like it’s been punched out of him, loud enough other people turn from their dinners to look. “ _Whaaaat?_ Pssh, _no!_ Dude, no, I’m totally not- no way I’m-”

Doc is looking at him, smile gone, mouth a thin line. Charlie wilts.

“Maybe a little bit, yeah.”

“Charlie,” Doc says lowly, voice quiet and level but not without reproach. “Inhaling addictive chemicals is incredibly hazardous to your health.”

“I know, I know, I just get... _uhh,_ I get so worked up sometimes when I’m alone and my thoughts are heavy and sad and shit, y’know, and glue and paint and stuff just makes me feel lighter again, like I’m not gonna sink through the floor and through the ground and get stuck in the sewers where it’s dark.”

Doc is frowning, but not as severely as before. “I...see,” he says slowly. “Far be it from me to suddenly tell you how you must live your life, Charlie, but I would ask you, if you could, to seek treatment to stop.”

Charlie picks morosely at his garlic bread, tearing it into little cheesy pieces. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess I can try. Or...think about it. I know it’s...bad for my brain and stuff, the guys told me that, but I just figured it didn’t matter ‘cuz I was already...y’know.”

“Already what?” Doc presses, gently.

Charlie lets out a frustrated gust of air. “You know,” he snaps, ears burning, embarrassment coming out of his mouth angry. “You know- like. _Ugh._ Dumber than a bag of dead baby basement rats, okay? Huffing isn’t gonna make me any more stupid that I already am, so what’s the point of quitting?”

“Charlie,” Doc says. “You are _not_ stupid.”

“Yeah, I know, but-” Charlie cuts himself off, turns his chin and stares. “What did you say?”

“I said you are not stupid, Charlie,” Doc repeats, stern. Charlie’s brain sputters to a halt, and he has to mentally pause and rewind, just to make sure he heard right.

“I don't-”

“You are not stupid. You may not have been offered the same academic experiences as other people, but that does _not_ make you stupid. Do you understand?”

Charlie can’t remember how to nod, but Doc continues, gaze even with his. "I am asking you to quit huffing, not because I think it makes you less intelligent, but because I do not want you to become sick or irrevocably damage your brain. _That_ is the point of it, Charlie. To keep yourself _healthy._ ”

Doc’s voice softens infinitely, making something inside Charlie twist tight. “You are not stupid," he says. "Far from it.”

Charlie swallows hard. “You really don’t think I’m stupid?” he asks, voice quiet. “Not even, like, a little? You didn’t...you aren’t gonna tell your scientist friends my stories are dumb and that I’m dumb and that my hair is dumb?”

“No, Charlie,” Doc says. “I’m sorry that my actions contributed to making you feel this way, to hurting your feelings. You are not dumb. Your stories are incredible.” Doc’s mouth twitches, and his eyes glimmer. “And your hair could be described by some as... charming.”

“Charming?” Charlie echoes numbly. He lifts a hand to his hair. It’s kinda greasy, half floofy and half mashed flat. Tacky, at worst, probably with blood. Doc ducks his head a bit, shoulders shy, and Charlie finds himself grinning.

“I like your hair too. S'nicer that it was before, before you looked a little weird, but now it looks like a doctor on TV. Suave and clean and stuff. Like an actor or something,” Charlie says. Doc chuckles and shakes his head, and Charlie adds, “You’re also the smartest person I think I’ve ever met. Like, ever.”

Doc turns pink to the tips of his ears, and Charlie thinks he has a new favorite color. There is Waitress's blue, blue eyes, and the deep red of his favorite Queen t-shirt, and now the sometimes-blush blooming in Doc's cheeks, ears, and neck. 

He supposes the color of Doc's eyes aren't too bad either, all dark and brown, like the glass of a beer bottle under warm, low light. 

“Thank you, Charlie,” Doc says, all sincere beneath his flush. There’s a quiet beat, where the drum beats in Charlie’s heart grow so loud in the silence that he gets worried Doc might hear it, and Doc clears his throat, looking off to the side.

“I believe the waitstaff is growing impatient for us to leave our table,” he says, and Charlie feels the beat in his heart stutter and plummet like a drum set that’s been kicked down the stairs.

“Ahh, I guess we have been here for a while." Charlie nervously sucks a straw into his mouth, resisting the urge to chew it flat. “Do you...uh. Wanna go?”

“We have lingered, perhaps, longer than is polite,” Doc says. Charlie nods reluctantly, and lifts his hips to tug out his Transformers wallet.

“Oh, that’s alright, Charlie, I do not mind picking up the tab this time. It was me who offered we go out to eat.”

“What? No, dude, if you’re lucky enough that I _remembered_ to have my wallet today, the least I can do is pay for my own food.” Oh, man. _I am so lucky I had my wallet._ Doc laughs and the knotted dread Charlie feels at the night ending loosens a bit, at least until they are both standing outside in the dark.

“That was a remarkable dinner, Charlie,” Doc says. His hands are tucked into his jacket pockets to protect them from the chilly November breeze, and Charlie mimics him, burying his hands into his jeans. Doc looks even paler in the dark, under the harsh streetlights, but it’s not bad, he looks- Charlie swallows hard, tries to remember to blink.

“Yeah. It was, uh...really nice.” Charlie's voice cracks, and he falls silent again, his throat feeling like a twisted-up pretzel.

Doc looks briefly just as uncomfortable as Charlie feels, breath going cloudy in the cold and hanging in the awkward space between them, and Charlie braces himself for the sting of “let’s not do it again, huh?” that he’s been waiting for. He can’t remember the last time he had such a totally chill dinner with somebody different-- especially someone as awesomely different as Doc-- so it’s bound to end miserably for him.

“Doc?”

“Hmm?” Doc turns, gaze suddenly sharp and intent on Charlie, and his stomach does a backflip.

“Are you...are you, uh, gonna walk home, dude? Do you live close? It’s kinda dark out...and south Philly isn’t really the safest at night.”

“Oh.” Doc blinks, shoulders dropping a bit, as though he hadn’t really considered that fact yet. “I, yes, I am going to walk. I’m parked in a public garage not from here.”

“Wanna...um. Want me to come with you, man?” Charlie asks, briefly entranced by his own shoes.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, I’ll be quite alright-”

“No, let me- yeah, I’m coming with you,” Charlie says, after sucking in a breath and letting it out like he had watched Doc do before and feeling a little braver for it. When he lifts his chin, Doc is looking at him in a way that makes him forget the icy breeze entirely.

“Thank you,” Doc says, and they start walking. They don’t talk as much as they did walking to the restaurant a few hours ago, but the silence isn’t awkward. Charlie is good friends with awkward silences, and this isn’t one of them- it’s. Friendly. Yeah. A friendly silence. That’s what he tells himself, at least, as his frantic ideas about how to lengthen the night with Doc grow increasingly desperate and begin to involve slashed tires. Unfortunately, they make it to the garage in only a few minutes, the heavy bottle of disinfectant bobbing against Charlie’s chest in his jacket pocket as they walk, and Charlie’s steeling himself for goodbye when Doc gestures to a small, but new, grey Toyota.

“Come along then,” Doc says. “I will give you a lift to your flat.”

“Oh, really? I, um, nah, I'm alright- it’s not that far from here, man.” Charlie points with pitiful effort in the vague direction of his apartment building.

“Nonsense. Get in the car, Charlie.”

Charlie bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to sound too eager when he agrees. “Sure, okay. Thanks, Doc.” He climbs into the passenger seat, feeling kinda unclean in the pine-smelling tidiness of the car’s interior. Doc begins to ask him for directions, which Charlie gives, and within only a few more minutes, they’re parked in front of Charlie’s shady tenement building. Looking up at it through the window, Charlie hopes that it’s too dark for Doc to see how shitty it is.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” he says, turning to Doc, “And for showing me that killer restaurant. And, uh, the medicine stuff. And for helping me with my head.”

“It was no problem. Truly.”  Doc smiles, somewhat subdued in the shadowy interior of the car, and Charlie stares at him for a moment, frozen, for some reason completely unwilling to crawl back into his apartment to Frank and Artemis and leave the night with Doc behind. However, the idea of weirding out Doc is somehow even worse, so before he can blurt out something stupid, he swallows hard and reaches for the door handle.

“If-”

Doc’s voice breaks hesitantly across the silence, and Charlie nearly gets whiplash jerking his head around to look back at Doc, hope rising in his chest.

“If you wanted,” Doc continues, hands folding and unfolding anxiously in his lap, “we could...do this again, another time? If...if you have more stories to share?”

Charlie makes a high-pitched, aborted noise in the back of his throat that sounds like tiny dying animal, before swallowing down the joy and saying, vehemently, “Dude, _yes! ..._ Uh, I mean, yeah, that’d be awesome! If you, uh, wanted. If you’re for real, I mean. Yeah, dude, sounds...good.”

The reservation dissolves on Doc’s face, and he smiles wider, moonlight reflecting on the perfect peal of his teeth, and Charlie thinks he’s gonna have a heart attack. Of freakin’ _happiness._ Even Doc’s teeth are awesome. And he wants to eat with Charlie again. He and his awesome teeth and awesome face and awesome brain want to _hang out. With him!_ “Yes? That’s...wonderful, yes. Shall we...erhm, exchange numbers, then?”

Charlie rips his phone out of his pants pocket so fast he thinks he pulls something, and Doc only laughs under his breath, a chuckle that’s less his throaty one from his dinner and more... _giggly,_ and holy shit, it’s a good giggle, and Charlie is getting Doc’s number. Charlie is putting Doc’s number _in his phone,_ Doc’s putting _Charlie’s number in- his- phone,_ holy shit, this is the best thing ever, Doc wants to _have dinner again because he thinks I’m smart and cool, and it’s gonna be so awesooommmeee~_

They swap phones again, and Charlie feels the heat from Doc’s fingers when they brush, and it makes a tremulous giggle spill out of him like jello.

“Until next time, Charlie,” Doc says, and Charlie realizes he’s staring and not moving.

“Uh, yeah,” he breathes. He pops the door open but doesn’t slide out yet.  “Til next time. Sweet. Goodnight, Doc.” He hesitates another second, still kinda hooked on the crinkles at the corners of Doc’s eyes in the low dash light, before climbing out and closing the door.

“Goodnight, Charlie.”

Charlie numbly steps back and waves furiously. Doc lifts a hand lightly and waves once, dipping his head, before pulling away. Charlie stares at the headlights until he can’t see them anymore, and stands still on the street blinking their photonegative flare from his eyes.

“Until next time,” he repeats. “Until _next_ time. Until next _time!_ ” His voice grows incredibly loud, reverberating off the building behind him, and he feels so insanely excited that starts aggressively fist-pumping the air like Mac doing karate, and doesn’t stop until his arms get tired.

Charlie got Doc’s number.

 _Nice,_ Charlie thinks, hysterically.  _Nicenicenicenice-_  the word doesn’t quite fit like it did before. This is so, so much bigger than nice, this is _colossal,_ humongous! Badass, fucking huge! _It’s_ -

 _“Extraordinary,_ ” he intones, channeling Doc's voice as best he can, and it fits. He smiles so wide he lifts his hands to his own cheeks to feel how far they stretch. His fingers are cold, and he’s starting to shiver in the wind, so still grinning, he whirls on a heel to run up stairs and tell Frank everything.

* * *

He texts Doc hello the next morning, after nearly throwing up for nerves thinking about it.

Doc texts back.

**Author's Note:**

> this will be a series of shorts (that vary in length from shorts to...not-so-shorts). if u want to see these nerds do something in particular, i'm currently taking suggestions/prompts ;) (hmu on tumblr @apprenticeofdoyle)
> 
> Disclaimer: so yeah this series is gonna woobify the shit out of Charlie, what about it???
> 
> for context this takes place a few months after "Flowers For Charlie"; so, after the end of Season 9/the beginning of season 10??? idk
> 
> Yeah, Scientist is wearing Schrodinger's cat socks, he's an unapologetic nerd, sue me. also, his hair was atrocious in 'flowers for charlie' so i'm giving him a new haircut. literally imagine any other haircut than the one he had, and that's fine. and i'm giving him burn gorman's excellent taste in sweaters, so, just. imagine scientist looking like a nicely dressed human lol 
> 
> title from 'bad case of loving you' by robert palmer lmao


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